Mar. 13th, 2005

greenstorm: (Default)
I really needed that vacation. I feel whole again, immediate and self-full, a presence and not a ghost that only watches. When I walk I can feel my hips swing, and looking people in the eye takes nothing from me. I finished the first crossword of my life today with the Juggler in the car waiting for the ferry back (a ferry was broken, so the wait was four hours until we got on). I paid for my share of a hotel room for the first time. I have juggling balls. I remember things: fall into life like a heavy stone, don't skip over the surface. Breathe it in until your chest bursts. Arthur lies waiting for the kiwi vines. There is no rebirth without death, no death without birth. Whatever Arthur is or was, his image cast in rushing waters is now part of me. We are comglomerates of those we love, things and people, all magnetically sealed together around the core of self. I remember something about love, the way it's connected to smells and the little motions of life that bring joy to the lover. I remember how important the sound of voices is, and the twitch of whiskers. The other night, Caramel and Merlyn curled up by my feet in bed for an hour or two. Some day I will die; as with all sentient things, that will be the completion of a thing. Prarie grasses have roots that go down eighty feet; plant me under a prarie and I'll be invaded, cranny and nook, by life's hungry seekings. Roots wear minerals away from the soil with mild acids. If I was to plant anything over you, what would it be? For myself, I hope some day I'll be worthy of a cherry tree. Vancouver Island is dry, with thin soil and Garry Oaks clawing at the sky, twisted around, and even the douglas firs (named after Douglas, and after Archbald Menzies, pseudotsuga menziesii) were thin and pointy. The sea would eat you there before the plants would, and the weather would destroy you first. This is why the rainforest is so peaceful: rot, which is only life after all, devours the dying before the rest of the world can get at it.

This train of thought has been brought to you by the first annual Victoria Juggling Festival, BC Ferries, many rats, Greenstorm, and a pair of Chrises.
greenstorm: (Default)
This is a poem I read on here several months ago. I found it looking through my bookmarks, and I think it, as with the poems posted in answer to my query, is wonderful. I've noticed that every poem I read is about loss of some kind or another, lately - probably reader's interpretation there. I really love this community.

Hieroglyphics on a Branch of Peach

for Shari

Once, a woman made love to me
through the slippery dark.
Her brother was dying, her sisters were shooting
heroin in the bathroom as she moved her tongue
like sadness on my skin, and I felt
how all the sweet explosions --
summer, orgasm, a ripe peach in the mouth --
connect unfailingly to the barren fields.

What we have learned about love in this life
can never be removed from us.
Not one minute pried
from any of the days --
and yet, there was a worm
which entered the live branch,

lived and ate and tunneled through
the wooden heart, and with its body wrote
new language
through the lost years.

So there must be another,
more convincing name for innocence,
the kind the body never lost,
the grace of stumbling
through an open door --

~ Ruth L. Schwartz

Oops..

Mar. 13th, 2005 08:53 pm
greenstorm: (Default)
...that was supposed to go to Greatpoets, but I'll leave the poem here anyhow.

What we have learned about love in this life
can never be removed from us.

Profile

greenstorm: (Default)
greenstorm

July 2025

S M T W T F S
  12 345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 6th, 2025 12:29 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios